


Improbable Reality

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Elephant In The Room [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty recaptures John and leaves him trapped in a world of hallucinations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improbable Reality

There were iron bands strapping him down as if he were in some sort of medieval torture device, holding him in place so that he could barely breathe. The magnolia walls were awash with shifting shadows that were kaleidoscoping between leering faces and dark figures. John watched as they clumped into the corner then formed into a bird which flew out with a flurry of wings, passing close over his head. He turned as much as he could in his restraints to see it alight on an umbrella.

Mycroft's umbrella. He was naked except for it, standing by John's bed and looking down at him with a mixture of pity and condescension.

“This is hardly helping Sherlock, is it, Doctor Watson?” he asked.

John stared at him. The bird stared back, twitching its head to one side inquisitively. “Why are you naked?” John asked curiously.

“Birds are always naked,” said Mycroft unhelpfully. He twirled his umbrella, dislodging the bird. It let out a displeased cry and disappeared back into the shadows, which were stretching out into hands, long fingers reaching for Mycroft.

“Watch out!” John warned him, and Mycroft glanced over his shoulder with a little tut.

“They can't touch me,” he said. “I'm a Holmes.” He twirled his umbrella again and the shadows shifted, spinning together into long double helixes. “It's the DNA. If you had it, you wouldn't find those restraints any bother.”

John pulled uselessly at them and the cold metal tightened as if fighting back.

Mycroft tutted and did a stately pirouette. “Watsons should be made of sterner stuff. What is the modern army coming to?”

There was a thump from outside the room. The men were coming back. John's mind was full of cotton wool and candy floss (sometimes it leaked out onto the pillow, but when he tried to eat it there was nothing but air), but he knew that horrible things happened when the men were here.

“Get me out,” he begged Mycroft.

“Not my job,” said Mycroft, bending his knees and lifting his umbrella high above his head. “You need the other Holmes for that.”

Heavy footsteps running over carpet passed close to the door, which loomed larger, swelling threateningly as the shadows rushed to it, clinging to the frame and swirling in complicated, hypnotic patterns.

“Sherlock,” said John. “Where is he?”

He should be here. He was always here. Or was he? Maybe this wasn't interesting enough for him - he wouldn't come if he thought it was dull. The shadows flowed into one giant face that grinned at John with crooked teeth, laughing at his fear.

“Where are any of us?” asked Mycroft philosophically. He danced sideways with a careful galloping step, then twirled again. “I think it's time for my exit,” he said thoughtfully. “Good luck with the restraints.” He tapped the wall with his umbrella imperiously and the shadows flowed into an intricately decorated gateway. He nodded with satisfaction and stepped through into nothing.

“Wait!” called John. “Come back! You have to help me!”

The only response was the disappearance of the gateway as the shadows slid back into other shapes. More birds, a whole flock, taking off across the wall with a fluttering of wings.

Outside, there was a startled cry followed by a thump, then footsteps coming back up the corridor again. John started to struggle against the iron bands, which pulled tighter in response, cutting into his skin so harshly that he began to shrink, pressure forcing his body into less and less space.

“Help!” he called out. He kept shrinking, getting smaller and smaller while the shadows watched and mocked him. Little Johnny getting even littler, soon we'll be able to fit him in the dustbins again. “Mycroft! Sherlock! Help, anyone, I'm disappearing!”

The door flew open, smacking back against the wall, and a tall, dark figure in a cape stood in the entrance. John abruptly stopped his struggles, staring up at him with awe.

“Batman,” he breathed out.

“Who?” asked a familiar voice and the figure stepped forward, revealing itself to be Sherlock. “John,” he said, sounding relieved. “Are you okay?”

“I didn't know you were Batman,” said John wonderingly. Sherlock wasn't wearing the mask but the cape was unmistakable, swirling around his shoulders as if it had a life of its own. The shadows fled from it, backing into the corners of the room where they had no power.

“What?” asked Sherlock, then he strode forward and put a hand on John's shoulder. “Are you okay?” At his touch, John was restored to his normal size.

“Fantastic,” said John, smiling up at him. “Especially now you're here instead of Mycroft.”

“Mycroft was here?” asked Sherlock in confusion.

“I didn't like his dancing,” John confided. “I'm not sure he's got the figure for it.”

There was silence for a long moment, then Sherlock felt for his pulse. “What did they give you?”

“Who?” asked John. Sherlock's cape flared out as if in a sudden wind and he wanted to reach out and touch it, but the bars were still holding him down. He struggled for a moment, then let out a whimper. “I want to go home,” he told Sherlock. “I don't like it here. The shadows aren't friendly.”

“No, I'd imagine not,” said Sherlock. He let go of John's neck and started work on the restraints, opening them with just the touch of his hand.

“Holmes DNA,” said John and reached out to touch Sherlock's hand as soon as he could, wondering if he'd be able to feel the power of it on his skin.

“John,” said Sherlock firmly, pulling away. “I need you to focus. We have to get out of here.”

“Yes,” agreed John, sitting up. “Can't we go through the wall, like Mycroft did?”

“That was an hallucination,” said Sherlock. “They've drugged you with something, John, but I need you to try and keep it together until I can get you outside, okay? Keep quiet and keep close to me.” The bat symbol on his chest was starting to glow softly and John put his hand on it. It was warm and pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Quiet and close,” he agreed.

Sherlock helped him up off the bed, which seemed to have turned into a boat, rocking gently on the waves of the floor. John stumbled a little trying to keep his balance, but Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. Well, of course not – Batman could walk on water. Or was that someone else? Either way, John kept a tight grip on Sherlock's arm as they headed for the door so that he didn't fall and drown.

Outside the door was a cave. Black rock dripped with something unpleasantly green and tiny red eyes blinked at them from the dark.

“I don't like it,” whispered John.

“Just stay with me and you'll be fine,” said Sherlock, heading confidently away from the room. John scurried after him, glancing around at the eyes worriedly. They were probably bats, he decided. Of course Sherlock wasn't worried about bats – he was Batman.

He kept a grip on the edge of Sherlock's cape, concentrating hard on staying quiet and keeping close to him. The caves grew lighter the further they went, sunlight starting to flood in from somewhere that John couldn't see.

There was a sudden cry behind them and Sherlock spun, pushing John behind him.

“What are you doing here?” yelled a harsh voice, and John peered around Sherlock's shoulder to see a pair of massive, green-skinned monsters bearing down on them. Orcs!

“A rather better question might be what have you been doing here,” said Sherlock tersely, not sounding even a little bit terrified by the blood-stained claws and yellow fangs heading for him. “And how long is it going to put you in prison for once the police get here?”

“There ain't no police coming,” said one of them, drawing a massive broadsword. “You're bluffing.”

“Unlikely,” said Sherlock, then pulled something from his cape, something small that John couldn't see from behind him. “Stay back, or I will use this.”

A Batarang, maybe. Or, wait, orcs. You needed a wizard to defeat orcs, didn't you? Maybe it was a wand or something else magical. There was a rumbling growl underfoot and the cave trembled. Definitely something magical.

“John,” said Sherlock, not taking his eyes off the orcs. “John, I need you to go round the corner behind us.”

John glanced back. The corner was lit from beyond by a flickering, reddish light. “It's on fire,” he said.

“No, it's not,” said Sherlock sharply. “That's not real.”

“I can see it,” said John. A shadow moved in front of the light, something large and powerful-looking.

One of the orcs laughed coarsely. “Not quite right in the head, is he?” he said. “Perhaps you should just leave him with us and get gone before you're the same.”

“Shut up,” said Sherlock sharply. “John, you have to trust me. There's nothing there, it's perfectly safe.”

“Sherlock,” said John slowly. “Sherlock, I don't-”

“It's not there,” cut in Sherlock. “John, please. You have to do this.”

Sherlock only ever used that tone of voice when it was important. John took a deep breath and pulled himself up as straight as if he were on the parade ground. “Right,” he said and set off, into the fire. If Sherlock said it was okay, then it would be okay.

He turned the corner to find a vast lake of lava stretching out as far as he could see and he stopped in surprise. A moment later Sherlock came running after him, grabbed his arm and shouted, “Don't stop!” and pulled him out into it. John stumbled for a moment but Sherlock had been right – it was fine. The expected burning pain in his feet didn't come.

Behind them, the orcs were roaring with anger and giving chase, but they ran across the lava as if it were nothing more than carpet, Sherlock holding onto John's wrist with a grip that glowed with white light.

“Magic!” gasped John with delight. Was there anything Sherlock couldn't do?

“Faster!” Sherlock commanded him and John put on another burst of speed, dazzled by the way the lava solidified into rock under his feet, then exploded into a shower of sparks the moment he lifted his weight from it.

They sprinted through the caves, burst through a set of doors, and suddenly there was light and noise everywhere, people hurrying about dressed in shining cloaks, and John had to stop and cover his eyes.

“John?!” asked Sherlock, stopping next to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “John, it's just the police, it's okay.”

The orcs burst out behind them, stopping at the call of, “Police! Stop where you are!”

“Fuck,” one of them swore.

Sherlock pulled John to one side as bright figures swarmed around them, clamping his hands on either side of John's head and forcing him to look at him. It helped a bit, blocked out the rest of the suddenly so very colourful world. Somewhere behind Sherlock's head, a Ferris wheel was spinning far too fast, spokes and lights blurring together. John shut his eyes against it.

“John, it's okay,” Sherlock said. “It's just the drugs. Can you remember what they gave you? Do you have any idea?”

John shook his head. “They did lots of stuff,” he said. “I lost track, there were so many of them and it all _hurt_ , Sherlock. It's all just fog.”

Sherlock's grip on his head tightened until it hurt, but the good kind of hurt, the kind that meant someone cared about you. “Not your fault,” he said. “Don't worry, John, I'll fix this.”

“Is he okay?” asked a voice behind them and Sherlock turned away to reply. John opened his eyes when his touch let go, unwilling to lose track of where Sherlock was.

It was a dog. A large, grey-mottled dog, walking on its hind legs and wearing a suit. John stared in surprise.

“Not really,” Sherlock replied, as if talking animals were an everyday occurrence. “They've drugged him with something. Where's the ambulance?”

The dog frowned, furry eyebrows twitching together. “It's over there,” he said, pointing with a paw.

“Amazing,” said John with fascination. “Did you do it with your magic?”

“Do what?” asked Sherlock.

“Make the dog talk,” said John. He reached out for it and it flinched away. “It's okay,” he said gently. “I just want to pet you.”

“What on earth is he going on about?” asked the dog, but it held still so that John could run a hand over its head and scratch behind its ears.

“I told you,” said Sherlock, “he's drugged.” He took John's hand, pulling him away from the dog. “Leave Lestrade be, John, you're going to start unwelcome gossip.”

“Lestrade,” repeated John. “That's a good name for a dog. We know a Lestrade, you know.”

Lestrade growled, deep in his chest.

“Come on, John,” said Sherlock, sounding amused. “Before the Detective Inspector loses his sense of humour.” He pulled John away by his wrist, leading him through the crowd of brightly-lit people and golden carriages. There were fairy lights hanging in the sky overhead, faintly humming with quiet music and John lost himself in watching them, stumbling after Sherlock without really looking where they were going.

When he looked back down, he stopped in shock, refusing to move even when Sherlock tugged at his hand. “I'm not going anywhere near that,” he said firmly.

Sherlock glanced at him, then back at the rough wooden wagon, piled high with corpses and attended by two cowled skeletons holding scythes. “It's an ambulance, John,” he said impatiently. “You need to go to hospital, so that they can work out what you've been given.”

“That's not an ambulance,” protested John. He was a doctor, he knew what an ambulance looked like, and that was not it. “You can't make me go near it, it's horrible.”

Sherlock sighed an rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine, okay,” he said. “Hey!” he yelled to one of the skeletons. “Over here! This man needs your help.”

The skeleton turned slowly without its feet moving, then glided towards them.

“You idiot!” said John, pulling away from Sherlock and backing up a few steps. “Why did you do that?”

Sherlock grabbed for his wrist again and held him tight with a grip like steel. “John, remember what I said before,” he said. “Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. He's just a paramedic, he's going to help you.”

“It's a bloody reaper!” insisted John, trying to peel Sherlock's fingers off him so that he could get away.

The reaper hissed something in a sepulchral tone, pausing a few feet from them.

“He's been drugged with something,” Sherlock said to it. “Just stay there a moment, I'll talk to him.”

“I don't bloody care who you are,” said John, still trying to get away. “Gandalf, Batman – I'm not letting that thing near me.”

“I'm not Bat-anything,” said Sherlock crossly. “I'm Sherlock. I'm your friend.”

“Of course you are,” said John. It felt like the one thing he was sure of. “I just don't understand why you want that thing near me. It's going to kill me!” The skeleton took a step closer and John could feel his heart speeding up, cold tingles spreading through his limbs like the touch of death. “It's already doing it! I can feel it killing me! I'm not a wizard like you, I can't survive this! Sherlock, please, you have to let me go!”

“John, he's going to help you,” said Sherlock.

John's breathing was being constricted, as if the steel bands from earlier were still tightening around his chest. “Let me go,” he begged. “Please, let me go.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment then suddenly let go of his wrist. John immediately backed away from the reaper, who was still staring at him from underneath the shadow of its hood. As much as he wanted to, John didn't get away completely. Sherlock was still here, after all – he couldn't leave him alone with Death.

“It's okay,” Sherlock said to the reaper. “I'll get him to the hospital in a taxi.”

The reaper nodded solemnly and turned away, gliding back towards its partner and their pile of rotting corpses. John let out a long, relieved breath.

“Thank God,” he said.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then caught his arm again and pulled him off in a different direction. “I don't care what you think the taxi is,” he said. “You're getting in it if I have to knock you out.”

“I don't understand why we don't just take the Batmobile,” said John.

Sherlock glared at him. “It's at the garage,” he said through gritted teeth. Clearly a sore subject – something bad must have happened to it.

Sherlock led him to the edge of a rushing river, giant birds flying past as close to the water as they could, occasionally scooping up a silver-gleaming fish. He stuck out his hand and an old-fashioned Hansom cab pulled in, pulled by two large seahorses.

“Get in,” he told John firmly, pushing him into the seat. John let himself be bundled in, curling up in the corner of the seat and looking out at the birds with interest.

“Do you think they'll try to eat the cab?” he asked.

“No,” said Sherlock firmly. “We're perfectly safe in here.” Ah, so he'd cast a spell on the cab then. “The nearest hospital, as quickly as possible,” he said to the driver, and the cab set off over the water.

A kingfisher the size of a pony swooped past and John smiled out at it. Sherlock had rescued him from the shadows, and now everything was going to be okay – no more restraints or unpleasant men poking at him. Even Mycroft would think twice before coming back to face the power of Batman, Gandalf and Sherlock all rolled into one.

 

****

  


****

 

Lestrade climbed the stairs to 221B as slowly as he could justify, wondering what he would find when he reached the top. The last time he'd been there, two weeks ago, John had been certain that he and Sherlock were living in the nest of an eagle and had spent the entire time that Lestrade had been there gazing worriedly out of the window and wondering aloud about the possibilities of making a ladder out of the furniture. Towards the end of the visit, he'd claimed to see the eagle returning and there'd been a bit of an altercation as he'd tried to drag Sherlock into hiding while Sherlock tried to reassure him that there was no danger.

When Lestrade reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock threw open the door and stared at him. “There's no need to worry,” he said coldly. “He's quiet today.”

“Any change?” asked Lestrade, although he'd lost any hope of a positive reply to that weeks ago. Sherlock gave him a scathing look and turned away, back into the room.

Lestrade had been there when the doctors had explained to Sherlock and John's sister that they had no idea how Moriarty's pet scientists had managed to alter John's brain chemistry so completely and so irreversibly. The sister - Harry - had started to cry rather messily when they'd started to talk about long-term care and the excellent conditions in residential homes these days. Sherlock had merely sneered.

“No one is shutting John away in a home to be forgotten about,” he'd said firmly. “I'll look after him myself. That way I'll have access to him while I'm working on the cure.”

The doctor hesitated for a moment. “Sir,” he said carefully. “I don't think you understand. There's no real hope of a cure – we don't even know what's wrong with him.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Of course you don't,” he said in his best 'you're an imbecile' voice, “but that doesn't mean there's no hope. I'm far more intelligent than both you and the doctors who caused this. I just need some time to properly study it.”

The doctor gave up on that line of reasoning, clearly recognising just how useless it was to tell Sherlock he couldn't do something, and tried another one. “He'll need constant care,” he said. “He can't be trusted alone for a minute – there's no knowing what he'll do with his perceptions altered as they are.”

“I know that,” said Sherlock shortly. “I'm not stupid.” He glanced back at the door of John's room. “Look, I'm the only one he recognises. The only one he trusts. Why on earth should he be left with strangers when I'm more than willing to take him home?”

There'd been arguments from both the doctors and Harry, but in the end the Holmesian Force Of Will had overpowered all protests and John had been brought back to Baker Street, where Sherlock provided him with a level of care that Lestrade would previously have thought him incapable of.

“Come in, come in,” said Sherlock irritatedly. He shut the door firmly behind Lestrade. John was standing right up close to one wall, a hand pressed firmly against it and a faint frown on his face. He turned to look at the noise and tipped his head slightly to one side, and Lestrade wondered what he was seeing.

Sherlock remained the only person that John always recognised – even when he called him by other names, it was clear he knew that it was Sherlock underneath the persona that his scrambled brain had layered on top. Everyone else was treated to a variety of different reactions, some of which were extremely unnerving. Lestrade hadn't been there when John had looked at his sister and seen their dead mother, but Sally had been and she'd told him about it afterwards.

“Flat out refused to talk to her,” she said. “He still knew she was meant to be dead – started accusing Sherlock of bringing the dead back to life. I suppose that's just the sort of thing that the Freak would do.”

Harry had left the room rather quickly after that, apparently.

“The roof is leaking,” said John. “We'll have to move the piano.” Then he giggled for a moment before turning back to his contemplation of the wall. Well, that was all right then – Lestrade had received worse greetings from him.

“Is that the file?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Lestrade, handing it over. Sherlock had all but stopped helping with any cases but he would look at them if they were brought to him. Most of his time now was occupied with learning everything he could about the human brain and trying to pick apart precisely what had been done to John's. Moriarty's doctors had all been killed by an unknown assassin before the police could secure them and their notes destroyed, so all the information they had was whatever Sherlock and the doctors he was working with were able to piece together.

Sherlock sat down with the file on the sofa, one of the few pieces of furniture that hadn't been replaced with medical books and equipment. Lestrade left him to it and went over to talk to John.

“How's it going?” he asked carefully. John tended to hear what people had actually said but that didn't mean that his responses made any sense.

“I'd be better if the frogs would leave,” he said. “The noise at night is almost as irritating as Sherlock's violin when he's sulking.”

“Right,” agreed Lestrade. “I suppose frogs can be a bit, uh, shrill.”

“Don't encourage him,” said Sherlock absently.

John glanced back at him, then twitched a conspiratorial grin at Lestrade. “He's just annoyed because the tadpoles hatched while he was sleeping and he missed it.”

That was something, anyway. John always seemed to be happy enough; whatever he was seeing, it wasn't usually bad or upsetting. There were exceptions to that, of course – the eagle incident sprang instantly to mind. Most of the time though, he was cheerful and smiling, happy enough to chat with whoever it was that he thought you were about whatever it was that made sense to him at the time.

“What are you looking at?” Lestrade asked.

John glanced back at the wall. “It's the documentary,” he said. “They finally finished it, but I'm pretty sure that David Attenborough has got some of it wrong. The frogs spend most of their time in the cupboards, not under the floors.”

“Maybe you should write him a letter,” Lestrade suggested.

John beamed at him. “Good idea,” he said, and left the wall alone to wander over to what was once his desk, carefully walking around an empty patch of floor on the way. He picked up one of Sherlock's pipettes and a newspaper, and sat down to compose what looked to be a very long and serious letter.

Lestrade looked back at Sherlock, who was watching John with an expression that Lestrade knew he wouldn't want him seeing. He looked defeated and heartsick in a way that few people had ever believed him capable of, and Lestrade wondered just how much longer he'd be able to keep up his seemingly fruitless search for a cure.

Sherlock turned to find Lestrade looking and his usual emotionless mask fell over his face. He thrust the files back at him. “Re-interrogate the nanny,” he said. “Ask her about the dimensions of the first floor bathroom.”

Lestrade took the file and nodded. “Right, thanks,” he said. Asking him for any more details on what, precisely, that was going to tell them was useless. Sherlock would just give him a long-suffering look and a rant about imbeciles.

“Sherlock,” asked John, “what's the Latin name for the frogs in the cupboards?”

“There are no frogs in our cupboards,” said Sherlock. “I've told you – you're hallucinating.”

John let out an impatient sigh. “Sherlock, come on,” he said in an annoyed voice. “Don't wind me up. I know you know it.”

“They're not real,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth. Lestrade had been witness to multiple attempts by Sherlock to persuade John that the things he saw weren't there, but he never seemed to get anywhere, no matter what manner of crazy thing John thought he was seeing.

John turned around and glared at Sherlock with annoyance. “You could at least try to be helpful,” he said crossly. “It's really not too much to ask, is it? You wouldn't co-operate with the film crew at all.”

Sherlock let out a long, slow breath. “Rana armaria,” he said snappily.

“Thank you,” said John, and turned back to his imaginary letter.

Sherlock glared at Lestrade until he said his goodbyes and left, shutting the door carefully behind himself and taking a deep breath. Everyone agreed that what had happened to John Watson had been a terrible thing, but Lestrade rather thought that what had happened to Sherlock Holmes was even worse.

 

****

  


****

 

Sherlock frowned over his notes and then squinted through his microscope again. He was onto something, he was sure of it; he just had to get all the pieces to fall into place properly. He was so close – he had to be. Just a couple more tests and he'd be able to start administering this treatment to John and find out if it was any more effective than the last two failed attempts had been.

There was a thump from behind him and he turned to see John disappear under the table.

“John,” he asked carefully. “What are you doing?”

“Ssssh!” hushed John. “Do you want Harry to find me?”

A childhood memory. That was safe enough to leave him with, so Sherlock turned back to his work. Having John constantly there at least kept the importance of this fresh in his mind, but it did make it difficult to concentrate sometimes. There were seeming endless distractions – even when John wasn't engaged in a hallucination that required intervention, he needed to be reminded to eat and sleep on a regular basis and occasionally convinced that yes, that really was food, and no, his bed wasn't part of a medieval siege weapon. All things Sherlock would have discarded as a waste of time if it had been just him, but he'd taken it upon himself to care for John and he didn't do anything poorly, even if it was something as unsuited to his personality as pandering to a sick person.

There was another thump from under the table and John emerged with his hair dishevelled. “Not fair, Harry!” he protested. “You know that's cheating!” He stormed off, but only as far as the kitchen.

Mycroft had come around again yesterday, twirling his umbrella and hinting, yet again, that perhaps it was time for Sherlock to put John in a home. Sherlock scowled at just the memory of it. John had been hurt because of him, he wasn't going to give up on trying to solve this just because it was taking a long time, or because it was difficult enough to make everyone else think it was impossible. It was a puzzle, just like any other, and eventually it would crack open and reveal its secrets to Sherlock. It had to.

It all seemed so far removed from Moriarty and his ridiculous and melodramatic threat to 'burn the heart out' of Sherlock, even if that had been the root cause. Well, he'd got what he wanted – Sherlock had all but given up with criminal cases for the moment, whilst he devoted his energies to fixing John and getting his blogger back.

What Moriarty probably hadn't expected was that Mycroft would take over where Sherlock had left off – it didn't do the country any good to leave criminal masterminds with the power to destroy someone's mind running about, after all. Yesterday's visit had been, ostensibly, to report that Moriarty's network was on the brink of falling. Sherlock would have found that news more satisfying if John hadn't been standing in the corner, glaring at Mycroft and muttering something bitter and aggrieved about his umbrella. John never seemed to take Mycroft's visits well.

He glanced into the kitchen. John was talking to nothing, his arms folded angrily. He looked like he'd used to, before all this, when he found one of Sherlock's experiments somewhere unexpected, or decided that it was time for a more equal division of the household chores. Something in Sherlock's chest clenched tightly, but he shook the feeling away and turned back to his microscope. If he wanted that John back, then the only way to achieve it was to keep on with his research. And his research was so much easier when he had John close by to study in person; ergo, he had to stay at Baker Street with Sherlock, not in some home, no matter how luxurious Mycroft thought it was.

Sherlock managed another ten minutes of work before there was a clatter from the kitchen. He gritted his teeth. That didn't mean, of course, that he was able to cope with these constant interruptions without some irritation. Was it really too much to ask to have John hallucinate something quietly in the corner for a few hours?

John had climbed onto the kitchen table, knocking off some of the clutter than had been crowded on it, and was gaping down at the floor with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded, standing up and stepping forward.

“Stop!” said John, throwing one hand up in a desperate gesture. “Stay back! You'll fall in!”

Sherlock stopped where he was and let out a sigh. He did not need this right now. “Fall in what?” he asked.

John looked at him as if he was an idiot. “The hole!” he said. “Huge, massive hole, going down further than I can see. Or have you decided not to notice that, not important enough to be on your hard drive?”

Sherlock glanced down at their kitchen floor. “It's not there, John,” he said tiredly.

John glared at him. “Of course it's there! Look!” He picked up the nearest thing to him – a coffee mug - and threw it off the table, where it shattered on the floor. He then gestured at it triumphantly. “See?”

Sherlock looked at the mess on the floor and sighed. “You're hallucinating,” he said, for the millionth time. One day, he'd say it and John would believe him.

Today was not that day. “I'd think I'd know if a bloody great hole is there or not,” said John. He looked down at the floor again. “Oh, God,” he said. “I think there's something flying down there.”

Right, time to intervene. “No, there isn't. The only thing flying here is me.” Sherlock stepped carefully onto the kitchen floor, hoping this would work. Usually if he planted the suggestion in John's brain right before he did something, he saw what Sherlock wanted him to see.

John stared at him with wide eyes. “How are you doing that?” he asked in a hushed voice. Excellent, it had worked.

“Magic,” said Sherlock succinctly. John had turned out to be prepared to accept magic as an explanation a lot more often than Sherlock thought that a medical man should. He stepped carefully through the mess on the kitchen floor to where John was. “I'll carry you to safety,” he offered.

John glanced down at the floor again, then up at Sherlock's face. “Will your wings carry my weight?” he asked.

Wings. Fantastic, of course, why not? “Yes,” said Sherlock firmly. “They're very strong.”

“Right,” said John nervously. He knelt up on the table. “Turn around then. I'll get on your back.”

Sherlock turned. A moment later, John's arms were flung around his neck and his weight was abruptly transferred to his back. Sherlock carried him carefully out of the kitchen, ignoring John's fast, slightly frantic breathing in his ear and the thud of his heart against his back. When they reached the sitting room, John let out a long breath of relief and Sherlock carefully put him down on the sofa.

“God,” said John, rubbing at his face. “Thanks, that was horrible.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, glancing back at the kitchen. He wondered how long the 'hole' was going to be there. He'd need to sort out dinner at some stage and clear up the mess on the floor, and he didn't really fancy having to do it with wings.

That was one thing that would be sorted after all this, at least. Once John was himself again he'd owe Sherlock for months of household chores and they could leave that whole, irritating argument behind them. Well, Mrs. Hudson had been doing rather a lot, but John didn't really need to know about that, surely?

John lay back on the sofa with a sigh. “You're always there when I need you,” he said. “It's – I appreciate it.”

Sherlock looked at him in surprise, then turned away abruptly. “It's not a problem,” he said. His research was spread out along the lab bench he'd had put in, all the unanswered questions and unresolved problems in it glaring at him like an accusation. It was just a matter of time, he told himself, going back to it. He just had to keep working at it.

 

****

  


****

 

John stared at the elephant. The elephant stared back.

There were a number of things wrong with it. Worrying things. It was red, for starters. John was sure that elephants weren't meant to be red. For another, it was a good deal smaller than it should be – it barely came up to his shoulder and he wasn't a particularly tall man. The most worrying thing was, of course, that it was in their sitting room, standing amongst the lab equipment and stacks of books as if it belonged there, and yet Sherlock hadn't spared it a glance in the – John glanced at the clock – twenty-seven minutes that John had been watching it.

The elephant blinked and shuffled its feet awkwardly, as if embarrassed to be there.

Sherlock was working at the series of experiments that had been preoccupying him for ages, for months, possibly, but everything in John's brain was a bit scrambled at the moment. He couldn't really remember much about the last few months, nothing that wasn't either hazy or nonsensical. He glanced around the room, taking his eyes off the elephant for a split second. There was a strange landscape outside the window - African grasslands with a herd of giraffes grazing from trees in the distance. The grass was growing right up against the windowsill. Wasn't 221B on the second floor?

He looked back at the elephant, which hadn't moved. How had it got up the stairs?

“Sherlock,” said John.

“Hmmm?” responded Sherlock, not looking up from whatever he was doing with the test tube.

“I don't think this elephant is really here,” said John carefully.

Sherlock spun around, nearly dropping the test tube. “What?” he said.

John looked back at the elephant and gestured at it. “There's nothing there, right?” he said. “I'm seeing things. There's no way there could be an elephant in here.”

Sherlock smiled; the genuinely pleased smile that John saw very rarely and most people never saw. “Yes,” he agreed. “You're hallucinating.”

“Ah,” said John, looking back at the elephant, which looked even more embarrassed now that it'd been found out. “What else isn't real?”

Sherlock put the test tube down and folded his arms. “Why don't you tell me?” he suggested.

John rolled his eyes. Trust Sherlock to answer a question with another question. He looked back at the windows. “We're on the second floor,” he said carefully.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.

“Then the view's wrong,” said John firmly. “The grass shouldn't be there.” He paused, his mind scrabbling for something else he'd once known. “And ... aren't we in London? That's definitely Africa out there.”

Sherlock's smile grew. “Very good, John,” he said. John resisted the urge to throw something at him in response to the condescension.

The elephant trotted past John to the window, looking out at the view longingly. It stretched out its red trunk and pushed helplessly at the glass.

“I think the elephant wants to be in Africa, not London,” said John. “Maybe we should open the window for it?”

“Not real,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Oh, right,” agreed John. The elephant gave him a beseeching look that wouldn't have looked out of place on a puppy. “You're absolutely certain?” he asked Sherlock.

“Very,” said Sherlock firmly. “You've been hallucinating for months, John. You can't trust anything your eyes see.”

“Months?” repeated John. He looked around the room again, seeing it as if with fresh eyes. It had changed rather significantly from the last time he could remember it clearly. One entire wall was now taken up with Sherlock's lab equipment – equipment that, now John was looking at it, looked more medical than chemical. The stacks of books had grown and multiplied and he tipped his head to read the titles.

 _Nitric Oxide in Brain Development, Plasticity, and Disease (Progress in Brain Research)_

 _Transcription Factors in the Nervous System: Development, Brain Function, and Diseases_

 _Little Red Riding Hood's Guide To Bestiality_

John frowned and reread the last one. “Bestiality?” he asked out loud.

Sherlock gave him a startled look, then shook his head slightly. “Hallucinating,” he said, as if reminding them both.

“Ah,” said John, looking back at the books. Little Red Riding Hood winked at him and giggled flirtatiously. He shuddered and firmly looked away.

“You were captured by Moriarty,” explained Sherlock, his fingers curling tightly against his arms as he spoke, although there was no emotion in his voice. “Before I could retrieve you, his scientists did something to your brain.”

“My brain?” asked John, faintly horrified at the idea of anyone, especially Moriarty, playing around with who he was.

“I've been working to fix it,” said Sherlock. “My latest treatment has clearly had some effect.” He looked faintly smug at that but it was layered over with relief that John wasn't sure he was meant to see.

“You're not a doctor,” he felt compelled to point out. “What do you know about the brain?”

Sherlock shrugged. “More now than I did six months ago,” he said. “I've been communicating with a few doctors, and most of the information is easy enough to find if you have access to the right medical journals.”

John stared at him. “You've been teaching yourself brain chemistry?”

“More than teaching,” said Sherlock with satisfaction. “I made a few breakthroughs.” He gestured at John. “You're evidence of that. I've been telling you for months that you're hallucinating, but this is the first time you've realised it.”

“Maybe I'm hallucinating you as well,” said John. He looked around. “Maybe I'm hallucinating all of this. How do I know what's real?” He could feel panic beginning to rise up in him, and the walls began to go hazy, flowing upwards like a backwards waterfall.

“I'm real,” said Sherlock firmly, and John believed him. He took a deep breath and glanced back at the elephant, which was still gently tapping on the window with its trunk, before turning to Sherlock again. The elephant just seemed wrong somehow, even if it looked as real as the rest of the room; something about the way it was superimposed over the world jarred in John's brain. Sherlock looked more real than the rest of the room, and the most right thing in it.

“Okay,” said John, and he sat down. “Right. Give me a minute to process this.”

Sherlock nodded but didn't look away, staying right where he was and watching John with interest, as if he were an experiment. If he'd been working on a cure for John for months, he probably was. John just hoped he wasn't going to explode any time soon like Sherlock's experiments had a tendency to.

John scowled at him. “Stop staring at me.”

Sherlock tipped his head slightly to one side. “Are you talking to me or the elephant?” he asked.

“You!” said John. “The elephant's fine.”

“Right,” said Sherlock, and turned back to whatever it was he'd been doing.

John stared at the back of his head and tried to think it all through. He didn't know what was harder to grasp – that his brain had been tampered with so seriously, that he'd somehow lost six months in a fog of hallucinations, or that Sherlock had learned an entire medical discipline just to help him.

“It's the fur, you know,” Red Riding Hood whispered conspiratorially. John glared at her.

Six months. He'd seen men who were hallucinating before. Even when they weren't raving or suffering from other symptoms, they were a nightmare to keep track of. Surely he should be in a care facility of some kind? He looked around the flat again, this time noting the two empty tea mugs on the table and the stack of washing up in the kitchen.

“Sherlock,” he asked. “Do I have a nurse?”

“You don't need one,” said Sherlock, not looking up.

“I need one,” said Red Riding Hood. “I love a wolf in a nurse's uniform.”

John scowled, pulled her book out of the pile and held it up.

“What does that say?” he asked crossly.

Sherlock turned his head. “Brain Energetics and Neuronal Activity: Applications to FMRI and Medicine,” he read.

“Right,” said John and glared down at Little Red Riding Hood. “Now shut up.” She pouted and flounced away, and he put the book down with a sigh of relief.

“Right,” he said, feeling more in control now that he'd bested a fairytale character. “So you've been looking after me? On your own?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Mrs. Hudson helps,” he said as if it wasn't a big deal. “And it's not as if you require much. Your hallucinations tend to keep you occupied while I'm working.”

John gaped at him. “Sherlock...” he said slowly, not sure how to react to that.

Sherlock scowled. “It's nothing,” he insisted. “Besides, you're getting better now. I've cracked the treatment; we just need to keep at it and you'll be back properly, and then we can forget this whole thing ever happened.”

John ran a hand over his head, pulling at his hair. _Too long_ , he thought to himself absently. He knew there were more important things he should be noticing, but at the moment he just felt a bit overwhelmed by all this new information. The walls were still rushing upwards, and now he could see fish leaping up with them. Knowing that they were hallucinations didn't make watching them any less strange and wonderful.

There was a thump and a happy-sounding trumpeting noise and John turned to see that a much larger, but still just as red, elephant had opened the window from the outside, and was helping the first elephant climb out. Must be a parent.

“Elephant's leaving,” he reported to Sherlock.

“Excellent,” said Sherlock absently. John looked at the bend of his back as he hunched over his work and thought that he didn't really need to worry too much about it all if Sherlock was working on it. Sherlock always found the solution, given time.

 

****

  


****

 

Another stabbing victim. Lestrade was scowling down at the body and hoping that this didn't mean they were going to be treated to another of the government's ridiculous anti-knife campaigns when Sherlock strode in, John one step behind him with his hands jammed tightly in his pockets.

“Right,” Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together. “Let's see what kind of awful mess you've managed to make of this one.”

“Be nice, Sherlock,” said John mildly, nodding to Lestrade in greeting.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise at the idea of that and set about going over the body in his usual meticulous fashion. Lestrade stepped back to give him space, next to John who was also watching Sherlock pore over the scene.

“How you feeling?” he asked as casually as he could.

John gave him a mildly amused smile. “Good,” he said. He looked it as well – not that his affliction had ever really had much effect on his appearance. Still, he looked healthier now, better rested and more relaxed, and it was nice to be able to talk to him without his eyes darting off after things that weren't there.

Sherlock had announced a couple of months ago, with his usual love of drama, that he'd cured John and so was now available for cases again, but he'd only been partially right. Whatever magical cure he'd put together had had a gradual effect, pulling John out of his hallucinations step-by-step rather than all at once. For the first few cases that Sherlock had taken, John had still been a bit off, watching the world with wide eyes and not saying much unless he had to. Sherlock had continued as if everything was back to normal, but Lestrade had noticed the way he'd taken care to keep close to John and when John had started to look a bit overwhelmed, he'd settled a hand on his back and whispered something in his ear that made John take a deep breath and relax.

“Been up to much?” asked Lestrade.

John snorted. “Not really,” he said. “When you called, you interrupted an argument about Batman's sense of morality that had been going on for nearly an hour.”

“Discussion,” Sherlock corrected him, straightening up. “It was merely a discussion. And, if you will insist on comparing the two of us, then you should expect some debate over the matter.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and smirked at John. “Sherlock and Batman?” he repeated.

John scowled. “It was when I was hallucinating,” he said crossly. “It probably has as much to do with his coat as anything else, but he's insisted on following up on it.”

“I'm surprised he even knows who Batman is,” said Lestrade.

“I researched,” said Sherlock, glancing back around the room. “Which reminds me, John, we need to have a discussion about Gandalf as well.”

John groaned. “I was out of it!” he said. “It's not fair to hold me accountable.”

“I am merely trying to understand your subconscious,” said Sherlock. He turned to Lestrade. “I need to see the hidden room.”

Lestrade blinked. He hadn't told Sherlock about the hidden room yet, but of course he knew about it. “This way,” he said, trying not to sound too long-suffering.

Sherlock and John both followed him into the hidden room, the one with the impressive collection of weaponry and the strangled cat. There was a faint gasp as Lestrade gestured down at the cat and he turned to see that John had stopped dead in the doorway and was staring at the floor with wide eyes.

Sherlock reacted immediately, grabbing John's shoulders. “It's not real,” he said firmly.

John shut his eyes and shook himself slightly. “I know, I know,” he said, sounding faintly irritated. “I just wasn't expecting it. It's been so long – I thought I was done with this crap.”

“You are,” said Sherlock. “This is just an after-effect, it's nothing.”

John opened his eyes and nodded, and the look between them suddenly made Lestrade feel horribly in the way. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I'll get you some water,” he said and left the room as quickly as he could. He'd never really been exactly sure what the relationship between John and Sherlock was, but he knew where he wasn't wanted.

He took as long as he could but when he came back, it was clear that he was even less welcome than he had been before. Sherlock was holding John's head, pressing their foreheads together and saying something in a low voice.

“I'm fine,” said John in reply, grabbing at Sherlock's upper arms. “It's over, you fixed it. Look.” He pulled away from Sherlock and pushed him back a step. He looked down at the floor and Lestrade could see from his face that whatever he was seeing was incredibly unpleasant. Nevertheless, he took a long, confident stride out onto it, then looked back at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled at him in a way that Lestrade had never seen before, happy and pleased, without even a trace of his usual sarcasm or condescension. “John Watson,” he said. “You're a marvel.”

John laughed. “I'm not the one who became a brain expert in less than a year and cured the incurable.”

“It wasn't incurable,” interrupted Sherlock. “It was merely highly improbable that it could be cured.”

John ignored the interruption. “Sherlock,” he said in a hushed voice that Lestrade could barely hear. “Do you have any idea how brilliant that was? Batman and Gandalf – they're nothing next to the reality of you.”

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds then, just as Lestrade was thinking about backing away and getting out of there for at least another ten minutes, he swooped forward and captured John's face, kissing him with all the fervour of a man who'd found something he needed more than oxygen.

John let out a gasp, then kissed him back with equal passion. Lestrade carefully turned away and headed back down the corridor. It might be best to leave them alone for a bit longer than ten minutes, given the circumstances.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Improbable Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/501279) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)
  * [Cover Art: Improbable Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5167640) by [Trishkafibble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trishkafibble/pseuds/Trishkafibble)
  * [(PODFIC) Improbable Reality by flawedamythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9944597) by [AvidReaderLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvidReaderLady/pseuds/AvidReaderLady)




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